


and do what you can do

by twohourstraffic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Best Friends, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twohourstraffic/pseuds/twohourstraffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Shitty was there for Jack during their frog year, and one time Jack returned the favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and do what you can do

**i. august**

“The problem with being on a sports team is that you get here before everyone else does,” Shitty tells the wall above his bed. “So you’re stuck surrounded by the golden combo of empty rooms and dumb jocks who think that hockey isn’t a real sport. I’d like to see them doing what they do on fuckin’ skates, to be honest.”

The wall says nothing.

“And, I mean, I know that I’m a jock, I guess, you know, technically, but also fuck those dudes.”

The wall isn’t providing the social nourishment he’s craving, so he pulls out his cell, just to double check that he hasn’t missed a text. There’s nothing. The group chat with his school friends has gone relatively silent since graduation, especially because most people he knows are currently lying on beaches in Thailand or backpacking through Argentina. He sees the pictures on Facebook.

He lies back and contemplates his room, takes a picture to send to his mom. His dad dropped him off earlier in the morning, and Shitty made it his immediate mission to set everything up. His years at boarding school have given him a superhuman ability to make himself at home wherever he is, so two hours later he’s basically unpacked. His clothes are in the wardrobe, his bed is made; there’s a rug on the floor, posters on the walls, books on the shelf, a few photos on the door. His miscellaneous shit has been shoved in drawers and he’s even got a box of fucking tissues on his desk. If he was any more domestic, the room would belong in Architectural Digest.

Another twenty minutes of lounging around and Shitty is officially _bored_. He decides to go find someone to talk to, locking his door and heading down the hallway, looking for signs of life. He spies light coming through a doorway down the hall, hears the faint sound of music coming through laptop speakers, and makes his way towards it. There’s a stack of boxes labelled in French and a few duffle bags, but otherwise the room is untouched. They must have just arrived.

“Hey, anyone home?” he calls out.

There’s no reply, but he can hear someone using the hand dryer in the bathroom so he assumes that must be the mysterious room owner.

Shitty’s years at Andover have left him with very limited notions ‘personal space’ and ‘boundaries’, so he just wanders in, heading over to the far wall to check out what he can see from the window.

“Man, your view is amazing!” he calls out to the person in the bathroom. He’s not sure if they can hear him, but at least they won’t be startled when they get back. “My room’s on the other side of the hall, I can see fuck all. Basically just buildings, which is good for orientation but negative for aesthetic, you know what I mean? Check out that lake, though, that’s fuckin’ sick.”

“Can I help you?” comes a voice from behind him. Shitty spins and freezes for a second. _Oh, fuck._

It’s Jack Zimmermann.

 _The_ Jack Zimmermann.

The Jack Zimmermann who is hockey royalty. Whose dad is legendary. Whose mom is honestly still smoking hot. Fuck, those cheekbones are even more sculpted in person. Shitty can’t see his ass, but he can only imagine.

Despite all of this, Shitty has never been one to shy away from a conversation, so he grins and holds out his hand. “Hey, dude. How’s it going? I’m Shitty Knight, my room’s just down that way.” He points vaguely.

Zimmermann looks at him, stuck between confusion and bemusement. “Hi? Nice to meet you, I’m Jack.”

“Sorry to barge into your room, by the way. Hope that doesn’t bother you. I went to boarding school, it was all very mi casa es tu casa.” Then – “Oh fuck, you’re Canadian, right? Feel very free to kick me out if you want, no need to be polite.”

Jack snorts, then looks embarrassed at himself. “Oh … it’s fine. Whatever you want to do.”

Shitty looks around at the state of the room. The piles of boxes and bags aren’t going very far to make it feel homey – he can’t even see a lamp. “Any chance you need a hand with unpacking? I’m not saying I’m bored, but I spent ten minutes talking to a fuckin’ wall earlier. Not that it wasn’t a good conversation, but there wasn’t a whole lot of back and forth.”

Jack laughs, then stops himself, eyes going wide. “Oh, that’s very kind, but you really don’t have to.”

“I know, man. But if I don’t help you unpack, I’ll either sit here and distract you or wander up and down the hall until one of us goes insane. Your call.”

Jack chuckles, and Shitty makes it his mission to hear that sound as often as possible. From what he’s read in the gossip rags, Jack’s been through some shit. “Yeah, OK. Maybe if you could put the bed linen on the bed? And I’ll start with those boxes? And then you can put the books on the shelves?”

Shitty grins, punches Jack on the shoulder affectionately, and gets to work. Out of the corner of his eye, when Jack thinks he’s not looking, he can see the small smile that’s creeping onto Jack’s face.

* * *

** ii.  ** **september**

The first few weeks of class are good. Interesting, even. Shitty has always been a smart guy, has never needed to try hard at school, so it’s nice to have to pay attention and put in a solid effort. He’s shuffled his timetable around so that he’s got three classes with Jack, which is a nice bonus. Between their study sessions in the library and chats over meals, they’re starting to get to know each other well. He doesn’t know if he’s presuming too much, but it feels like Jack’s pretty much his best friend at college.

It’s nice.

They’re half-way through their Thursday Intro to Politics lecture, their lecturer having just given them a ten-minute break. Jack turns to Shitty, probably about to say something about not antagonising the lecturer more than is necessary, when he gets distracted by the person sitting on Shitty’s other side. Shitty turns to see what has caught his eye and smirks when he notices that it’s a pretty girl, with a curly ponytail and glasses. Never one to avoid a conversation, he smiles at her. _Wingman mode, engaged_.

“How’s it going?”

The girl smiles but leans across him and looks straight at Jack. “Hey, I’m sorry, but … you’re Jack Zimmermann, right?”

Jack startles and Shitty swallows a moan of frustration. He’d thought that Jack had dodged this particular bullet, especially because they were two weeks into classes and no-one had said a word.

Jack smiles uncomfortably. “Yeah, I am. Hi.”

“Oh my gosh, I thought it was you. I just wanted to say – I’ve followed your stuff for a while, it’s amazing that you’re playing for Samwell now. But also, why didn’t you just to the NHL? Surely someone with your talent should be playing professionally? Or did they not want you because of the –”

Shitty, who has been looking between Jack and the girl like he’s watching a tennis match, decides that enough is enough. He turns to Jack, slaps one hand over his heart melodramatically and does his best to look both offended and excited. “Wait, how does she know your name? Bro, are you _famous_? I cannot believe you never told me. Man, can you sign my arm? Or my chest? Oh my God, can you sign my shirt? Fuck, if you sign it, I’m never washing it. You’re the guy from that detergent commercial, right? I should have fuckin’ known, I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it before now. So fuckin’ embarrassing, Jesus H.”

The girl looks incredibly offended on Jack’s behalf. “No, he’s Jack _Zimmermann_. The hockey player?”

Shitty shrugs. “Sorry, man, I don’t really follow hockey.” He promptly realises he’s wearing his SMH shirt and does his best to pull his hoodie closed over it. The moment is thankfully broken by the re-emergence of their lecturer, who taps the microphone a couple of times and then stands impatiently, waiting for the room to quiet down.

Jack slaps Shitty on the arm, then smiles at the girl uncomfortably. “Yeah, you know, I’ve made the decision to come to college, and everyone fully supports it. It was definitely the right thing to do. It was nice to meet you.”

The girl pulls a half-hearted smile but turns back to face the lecturer.

Jack pulls his notebook towards himself and writes something in the corner of the page. He shoves it at Shitty. _you’re so embarrassing. _

Shitty grins and scribbles back, _you’re welcome,_ _you know you love me_ ♥

_~~thanks~~ _ _whatever, man_

* * *

**iii. october**

Halloween at Samwell is … an event.

Someone in their dorm has been blasting The Monster Mash at least once a day for weeks. The whole campus is draped in decorations. Jack talks about breaking his diet for candy. Shitty manages to convince Jack that wearing his own jersey is not a costume, and feels an irrational amount of pride when he promises that he’ll _at least_ wear another player’s number.

Halloween falls on a Monday, so the festivities are technically pre-Halloween, but no-one seems to care too much. They’ve been invited to the Haus Halloween Party, which is a bit scary in and of itself. Neither of them tend to spend much time there – the older members of the team are nice enough, but the Haus always feels like their domain. Shitty’s hoping he’ll get someone’s dibs though. If he has to spend another year sharing showers with thirty other people, he might do something desperate like ask his dad for money.

As they walk down the street and get closer to the Haus, it’s clear that it’s jam-packed. Music is streaming out the front door. There are no lights on in any of the windows, except the kitchen, which is full of people heading to the fridge.

Jack has been quiet all day, but Shitty had assumed it was the combination of his midterm paper and their loss the previous night. However, the more attention he pays, the clearer it becomes that Jack just doesn’t want to be there. In fact, he’s never seen him look more miserable.

“We don’t have to stay for long, dude. Let’s just check it out. You can go whenever you want.”

Jack nods, looking to all the world like someone walking to their executioner. “Yeah, I know.”

“Let’s have a good time while we’re here though, OK?”

Despite all of his intentions, Shitty loses Jack pretty quickly. He thinks he sees him over on the wall, talking to Jonesy and Hoover, but then he gets involved in a pong game against a few of the other frogs and someone hands him a joint and the music’s loud and he’s just having a good time.

He looks up some time later to see the 87 of Jack’s jersey disappear through the back door and into the yard, and does his best to weave his way through the crowd. By the time he gets outside, Jack is nowhere to be seen, and he swears under his breath.

“Jack?”

Shitty finds Jack around the side of the house, head pressed firmly against the shingles and nails digging into his palms. He’s pretty buzzed but he’s also sure that Jack isn’t supposed to be breathing like that.

“Jack? Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s OK. I promise, you’re going to be fine.” Jack looks at him with the most devastated expression Shitty has ever seen, and he subconsciously promises himself that he’ll never be the cause of it again. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s … it’s too loud. And too crowded. I can’t breathe, oh my God. What the _fuck_ is wrong with me? This hasn’t happened for weeks, I thought it was over.”

Shitty sits down next to him, clumsily, and grabs one of his hands. “You absolutely can breathe, Jack. You’re going to be fine, but I need you to breathe with me, OK? In and out, slowly.”

Jack looks like he’s about to pass out, either from lack of oxygen or embarrassment, but he mutters, “Can you just talk? I don’t care what about. Just distract me?”

Shitty feels like he’s been preparing for this his entire life. He wracks his brains for the most distracting topic he can think of before he starts running Jack through the plot of the first few seasons of Lost.

“And there’s these numbers, man. They keep popping up again and again.” He knows he’s rambling, but it seems to be helping – Jack’s breathing is slowly becoming more normal, but he’s not going to stop until he’s sure Jack’s OK. “They’re 4-8-15-16-23-42, and they’re _everywhere_. Like, Hurley’s lotto ticket and stuff. But they just brought him so much bad luck, so when he sees them again, he can’t believe it. But they’re relevant on the island, it’s insane. Everything’s connected, man, it’s unbelievable. You can’t even pick up on it all the first time you watch it.”

Shitty looks over when he feels Jack shift, and is relieved to see him smiling. “Well, that all sounds like a rollercoaster. Although I feel like I’ve seen it now, maybe I don’t have to watch it.”

Shitty shoves him in the arm. “I haven’t even done it justice, bro. Oh my God, we can watch it together. It’s going to blow your fucking mind.”

“Yeah, because that’s what I need right now,” Jack mutters. “Fuck, dude, I’m sorry. Thanks so much for sitting with me, I’m such a wreck when I get like this.”

“What was that?”

“Panic attack.”

“Fuck. That shit sucks, man.”

Jack snorts. “I know, right?”

They sit there for a few more minutes until Jack is able to stand up, then they head home and watch The Nightmare Before Christmas. Jack apologises six times before Shitty hits him over the head with a pillow and then hugs him into submission.

* * *

** iv.  ** **february**

Shitty is not having a good day. Tuesdays were always crazy, but this one was taking it to the next level.

Some dick on his corridor pulled the fire alarm in the middle of the night, and he had an early skate the next day. He was only half awake and Coach Murray pulled him aside to give him a talk about paying attention. The cafeteria was out of fruit loops so he had to deal with Raisin Bran. That twat Steve was making a fuss in his gender politics class – usually Shitty’s up for the discourse, but today it had just all been a bit too much.

Then, when he was walking back to the dorm, he got a phone call from his grandmother. As always, she’s full of news about her best friend's very successful granddaughter, his little cousin and her engagement, the family friend who just got early admittance to Harvard. Shitty made all the appropriate noises and had tried to make exhaustion, playing on the fourth line and sexuality studies sound marketable to her bougie friends.

When he arrives back on his corridor, he wants nothing more than a sadness shower and a nap. And, then, to get really fucking drunk. Or high.

Shitty barges into his room, throwing his backpack onto the floor and collapsing in a melodramatic heap on the bed. “Fuck college, fuck education and fuck Tuesdays in general,” he mutters into his pillow. “It's a bullshit day, and Steve from Gen Pol can stick it up his ass.”

“Bad morning?”

Shitty shrieks and spins around as best as he can from his position on the bed. Jack is sitting on the floor against his closet, arms wrapped around his legs and his forehead on his knees.

Shitty can feel his heart racing, but a small part of him is thrilled that Jack is finally infringing his privacy. “Shit, Jack, you scared the fucking daylights out of me.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I just wanted to get out of my room and…” Jack’s voice is getting progressively more upset. “It looks like this is a bad time, I’ll get out of here, I was just going to –”

Shitty flaps a hand in his general direction, trying to nip this panic in the bud. “Nah, just give me a moment to get my fuckin’ breath back, you ninja. How long have you been there?”

“Not long. Twenty minutes?”

“What's going on, dude?” When he looks closer, he can see that Jack’s eyes are red-rimmed and his cheeks are blotchy. He’s sniffing intermittently and generally looks miserable.

“I think I’m sick. I _never_ get sick.”

“Oh my God, are you serious? You look like you’ve got a cold. Jack, you big baby, just take some DayQuil and enjoy the time off.”

“I don’t _have_ any DayQuil because I never get sick.” He sniffs pitifully and slumps his head onto his arms again.

Shitty grins to himself, secretly loving the fact that Jack becomes a pissy twelve-year-old when he gets sick. He knew that there had to be some flaws under that hockey robot exterior.

“Brah. Just go to the store, grab some meds and tissues.”

Jack looks up at him with the saddest eyes Shitty has ever seen, and he feels his heart break a little bit. “Please come with me?”

“Oh my God, I cannot believe you.” But of course Shitty goes with him. He carries the basket and shoves in packs of tissues, teabags, Saltines, lemons, cold medication and VapoRub. Jack trails behind him like a small child, clearly feeling too sorry for himself to contribute much.

When they get back to the dorms, Shitty pushes Jack into his bed and sets up his laptop on his desk, pressing play on some history documentary. He pats Jack on the head, quasi-sarcastically, but Jack leans into the touch and Shitty almost feels bad. Then Jack sneezes and moans, and Shitty takes his leave.

He checks in on him intermittently during the day, but Jack is still miserable and there’s no real change. Finally, at about 10:30, Jack is sleeping peacefully. Shitty carefully pulls the door shut and heads back to his room.

* * *

**v. later that night**

Shitty is finally drifting off to sleep when he hears someone knocking on his door. It’s 2:30, so it’s unlikely that it’s anything good. He grumbles as he gets up, not appreciating the cold air in his room, but makes his way over to the door. He opens it and freezes.

Jack is standing in the hallway, half asleep, wrapped in a blanket. He’s clearly been sobbing, is still wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, and Shitty’s heart drops to the ground. Jack’s such an imposing figure on the ice that it’s easy to forget that he’s just a guy. A guy that’s clearly going through some stuff.

“Oh my God. Come in, come in. What’s going on, Jack?” Jack lets out a pitiful groan, shaking his head, and Shitty wraps him in a hug. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Shitty can’t get anything out of Jack except pathetic moans, so he pushes him onto his bed and under the blankets. Spooning up behind him, he runs a hand up and down Jack’s side. They’ve never been this close, off the ice, and he takes a minute to appreciate that Jack is trusting him like this.

They lie there for about five minutes, and Shitty is just starting to drift off when Jack sniffs and mutters, “I just can’t believe that they’re closing all the Tim Hortons. What the _fuck_ , man? They’ve got, like, 65% market share. How much more do they need?”

Shitty stops his stroking, half convinced he’s misheard. “What are you talking about, Jack?”

“They’re closing all the Tim Hortons in Canada because they don’t have enough market share.”

“No, they’re not, Jack.”

Jack ignores him completely. “Where the fuck am I going to get donuts now, man?”

Shitty has no idea what’s going on but he’s tired and if he doesn’t get enough sleep, Murray’s going to chew him out again. “Jesus fuck. Go to sleep, dude. It’ll all be OK in the morning.”

Jack mutters to himself about economic irrationality and national identity for a few more minutes but eventually falls into a deep sleep. Shitty follows suit and, before he knows it, his alarm is going off. Pre-dawn skates may be time efficient, but they’re a bitch.

Jack stirs slowly, stretching. He feels Shitty behind him and freezes for a second before he looks up at the wall and notices the familiar posters. “Shitty?” Shitty grunts in a way that is vaguely affirmative. “Why am I in your bed?”

Shitty nuzzles his nose into the back of Jack’s neck, and Jack makes a half-assed effort to wriggle away. It’s difficult in a twin bed, and he stubs his toe on the wall. “You came to me, brah. I think you had a bad dream or something.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about Tim Hortons closing and how it makes no sense economically. You were pretty devo, man.”

“Oh, crisse. I knew I shouldn’t have taken that NyQuil. I always get the weirdest dreams, but I couldn’t stop coughing and I was getting desperate.”

Shitty grins. “Absolutely no worries, bro. And you don’t have to take cold medicine to come and sleep with me, you know. You’re always welcome.”

Jack shoves him, jumps out of bed in a flurry of limbs and runs for the door, but he’s not fast enough to hide his laugh.

* * *

**vi. april**

Shitty has been lying on his bed staring at a water stain in the shape of a tree for twenty minutes when there’s a knock at his door.

“Shitty?” Jack calls. “You ready for lunch, dude? I think it’s chicken tenders today.”

“Go without me if you want, Jack. I’m not hungry.”

Jack pushes the door, which was apparently not shut all the way, because it swings open. He pokes his head in and stops when he sees Shitty. “What’s going on, man?”

Shitty takes a deep breath. “My dad phoned earlier. Bad family news.”

Jack sits down next to his knee and tries to look comforting. It’s not convincing, but Shitty appreciates the effort. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Shitty knows he’s going to have to tell him eventually, so he braces himself. “You know my cousin that’s doing his PhD at Yale? Jason?”

“Yeah, the one you can stand? He used to give you the best Christmas presents when you were little?”

“That’s the one,” Shitty sighs. “Stupid fucker had his phone in his back pocket and tried to get it out while going 80. They don’t think he even saw the tree.”

Jack gives a melodramatic little gasp. “ _Fuck_. Shitty, I … I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

Shitty reaches out and grabs Jack’s hand, and they just sit there for a minute. However, he’s incapable of staying silent for too long, and before he knows it, he’s talking again.

“The funeral’s in Cambridge on Friday morning. Fuck, I’ve got to talk to my mom, see if she’s OK with me just driving down for the day. And all my family are going to be there, it’s going to be fucking miserable. I mean, it’s a funeral, but … you know. And they’re all going to be saying nice things about him and backhanded things to me and I just … I just can’t believe … Fuck, where did I even put my suit? I haven’t worn it since …” Shitty knows he has a tendency to ramble when he’s overwhelmed but this is taking things to the next level. He peters off into silence and tries not to cry.

“I can drive us down, dude, don’t stress about that. And I think I saw your suit in the corner the other day, under your gear. I’ll take it to the drycleaner if you want, I’m sure you’ve got other things to be worrying about.”

Shitty smiles, but he’s stuck on the first thing Jack said. “Wait, drive _us_ down?”

Jack looks uncomfortable. “Oh, I mean … I don’t have to come if you don’t want me to, but I thought you could use someone in your corner. I can drive you down, deflect attention, talk you up if you want. Whatever you need, man.”

Shitty sits up and wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders. It’s not their best hug, probably not Top Ten, but it rates high for emotion. They sit there quietly until Shitty is ready to face the world again.

Jack does what he promised – Shitty is driven to Cambridge in a pressed suit. The funeral is painful; Jason was so young and so promising. All of the eulogies paint him to have been the voice of his generation, the nicest young man around, a loss that the universe will feel, and for all Shitty knows, he was. He sits in the third pew of the church, Jack on his right, and holds his hand tightly. It makes the day that little bit more bearable.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my sister for being my inspiration for Jack With A Cold. You’re completely ridiculous and I love you.
> 
> If you so desire, feel very free to come say hi on [Tumblr](http://murrayhewitt.tumblr.com).


End file.
